The Shield Random Drabbles & One-Shots!
by peeninabox
Summary: Random drabbles and one-shots involving the ever stoic Roman Reigns, the lovable psycho Dean Ambrose and the mean puppy/ninja Seth Rollins. Rated M for language. Non slash because I could never get into those.
1. Mug

**I got these ideas from CelticPrincessx3's 100 Prompt OTP Challenge! They were pretty fun to write, and I will continue this probably maybe later in the future. There is no exact timeline to these happenings. I also don't own any of these delightful wrasslin' boys, which is highly unfortunate. **

**Enjoy! (:**

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><p><strong>28. CupMug**

Seth's tongue poked out in concentration as he watched his hand guide the permanent marker over the smooth, cool white of the porcelain. He was never good at drawing anything and his handwriting was rather rubbish, so this task was proving quite an ordeal for him. He didn't know why he chose to do this, but it was about 40 minutes away from December 7th and he'd completely forgotten to buy a present for Dean's get-together that night until he caught sight of the shining, plain white mug sitting in his sink.

"A mug." Roman stared at Seth incredulously when they compared presents later. "A fucking mug, Seth?

Seth clutched at his gift protectively. He'd put a lot of effort into customizing it and he couldn't even remember the last time he'd sat down that long to laboriously draw something, so he was decidedly a little offended at his friend's skepticism. "Yes, a mug, Rome. Why, what'd you get him?"

Roman didn't answer, just eyed him suspiciously, getting too close into Seth's personal space for his liking. "You forgot to get him a present, didn't you? Up until I called you about an hour ago to remind you of our plans?"

Seth gulped. The big guy could be pretty scary when he wanted to be. "N-no," he stammered.

"Really? Because I swear I saw that damn mug in your sink this morning. Only now you've scribbled something on it with a sharpie."

"They're not scribbles! Look!"

Roman squinted apprehensively at the black squiggles and unwashed coffee stains on the offending white mug that was currently being shoved in his face. "Best Friends Forever," he read out loud, and then his eyes widened in disbelief when he saw the Dean Ambrose and Seth Rollins stickman figures decorating the end of the annoyingly sickening phrase. "Oh, my God."

"What?" Seth protested. "He _is_ my best friend."

Without a word, the Samoan turned and stalked down the hallway to Room 458 – Dean's room – with a big gift bag of something hanging limply off his fingers. Seth ran to catch up to the defeated figure that was Roman Reigns, who was currently knocking on Dean's door with fatigued, tired knocks.

The door opened in record time and Dean's beaming, slightly red face appeared from behind it. "Come in, boys! I got started on the whiskey already, but I know you won't hold that against me."

"Nah, it's cool." Roman slouched in and Seth followed, hiding the mug behind his back because he was hit with the sudden realization that he didn't even wrap it up.

"I've only got two glasses, so you two use those and I'll drink straight from the bottle, okay?" Dean admonished as he grabbed the aforementioned glasses from the TV stand. At the mention of 'two glasses', Roman whipped his head round and looked at Seth with an expression he couldn't and didn't dare to fathom.

Dean plopped down on the bed, poured them both drinks and started chattering on in slightly drunken glee about the furry mukluks he'd gotten from Renee earlier, about how goddamned warm they were and how he'd wear them anywhere he damn well pleased, so screw everyone else. It was only after he'd put them on and shut up that he noticed that his two friends hadn't said a word the entire time and seemed to be in an uncomfortable staring contest with each other.

"Okay, what's going on?" he asked cautiously, momentarily forgetting about the warm, fuzzy delights on his feet.

Roman's grin was probably the most forced, fake phenomenon in the history of nature. Dean frowned. Seth twiddled his thumbs anxiously.

"Happy birthday, brother!" Roman announced a little too loudly as he handed him the gift bag he'd brought with him. Dean tore into it and unboxed the Xbox One and a plethora of games with absolute relish. He clapped his hands in joy, bounded up and bearhugged Roman. "Thanks a bunch, Uce! Been wanting this for a time! You sly motherfucker, how'd you know?!"

"You told me outright last week, you drunken sonuvabitch." Roman sat back down to continue glaring daggers at Seth, who was now slumped further into his seat. "Do you wanna show Dean what you got him, Seth?" Seth wanted to kill him. It was so like Roman to do everything right and then rub it in your face.

He hesitated a short while before fishing his gift out from the chasms of the armchair underneath his butt and shakily held it out to the birthday boy. The silence that followed after Dean took the mug and studied it was literally deafening. Seth didn't want to kill Roman anymore. Now, he wanted to dig a hole right into the concrete with his bare hands and bury himself in the rubble. Forever.

"…you clearly need art lessons, my friend." Dean observed in a low voice, his tipsiness suddenly and not very mysteriously gone.

Seth jumped up, his face pulled into a sorry mask of guilt. Maybe Dean could be goaded over by grovelling and the promise of shiny, expensive gifts. "I'm so sorry, Dean! It was a last minute thing! I'll get you something much better tomorrow, I swear, anything you want! Does a yacht sound good?"

Dean looked up from the mug, regarding Seth with a huge, watery smile on his face. "Oh, shut up and sit back down, you raging idiot. We _are_ best friends and why would I want a goddamn yacht when I've got this?"

And with that, he poured a generous amount of whiskey into the mug and drank from it, hideous stickmen, shaky handwriting, coffee stains and all.


	2. Hair Dye

**Another drabble, also from CelticPrincessx3's list of prompts!**

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><p><strong>75. Hair Dye<strong>

Dean stood leaning in the doorway of the hotel bathroom, looking on contemplatively at Roman helping the two-toned ninja with his long overdue hair-bleaching session. He scrunched his nose up and picked at the day-old stubble on his chin as he entertained the idea that was currently cumulating in his head.

"Hold still for fuck's sake," Roman snapped through gritted teeth as Seth tried to turn and look at himself in the mirror for what seemed like the thousandth time. "You're still pretty okay? I doubt your looks magically deplete in 10 goddamn seconds."

"What?" Seth cried out indignantly at Roman's unfair accusation. Dean snickered at the very unmanly rise of pitch in his buddy's voice. "I'm not pretty! You're the one who everyone calls pretty, Rome!" By now, the irritation had almost all but burned a permanent scowl onto the Samoan's face.

Dean decided to interject, much to Seth's chagrin. "No, Uce is right. You're really pretty. Definitely the prettiest one on the active roster, and that includes the Divas."

"Shut your mouth, Dean." Seth snarled viciously and flipped him the bird, to which Dean responded in kind. "And besides, I was only checking to see if Rome went too high or too far back, okay? Jesus. I can do that without you guys giving me the third degree, right?"

Roman slapped the dye brush back into the bowl of bleach in exasperation. "No, no you can't. Because I've probably done this for you about a hundred freaking times, Seth. I think I know which bloody section of your hair to stop at by now."

"Alright, fine! Calm your tits, brother. I'll stay still."

The 15 minutes left to the completion of the hair-bleaching process came to an end with relatively little to no complaint from Roman or whining from Seth. As soon as they were done, Seth hopped up from his stool in nervous anticipation and stood as close as he could get to the bathroom mirror, scrutinizing his hair from every possible angle and direction. Roman washed the bowl and brush out at the bathtub, grumbling under his breath about vain pricks and their ridiculous high-maintenance hairstyles.

"Don't fucking know why I do it, Deano," he muttered to his friend as he replaced the items back onto the countertop. "You do it the next time because I'll probably wring his neck if I'm forced to bleach his stupid hair again."

Dean took his time answering, tapping at his collarbone, eyebrows furrowed. He supposed he might as well get out with it.

"No, you can't stop doing his hair, Uce," he said slowly.

"Why not?"

"Because you're fucking good at it."

"How dare you."

"You are. And I need a favor of that nature from you when the time comes."

Roman stared. Seth's head swiveled around and stared too, spraying water droplets everywhere. "What are you saying?"

"I'm gonna go Jon Moxley pink again."


	3. Make-Up

**Another one-shot! Make-up is very important, as we all know. Have a wonderful day! :D**

**Hyrde: AHAHAHAHA yes, I have no idea why but Seth is a complete diva in my head, even with the unkempt beard. It's got to be the latex wrestling gear. And wouldn't we all want to see Ambrose going pink again? The universe would explode and then some. I agree, did you read about Roman's hair care regime?! I mean, Jesus. Thank you for your review, it was very sweet! Made me happy dance for about an hour :D**  
><strong>LovelyChemistry: Thank you so much! <em>You're<em> funny and awesome.**

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><p><strong>71. Make-up<strong>

It was atrocious was what it was. Just three days in the Californian heat and he'd already developed two mammoth-sized zits in the worst places possible – right smack in the middle of his forehead and on the tip of his nose. They weren't even those mild, manageable types either, they were those angry, red, goddamn pus-filled kinds that threatened to pop and explode as soon as you touched them. He feared to think what would happen if he got socked in the face later during his match. Plus, they hurt like the devil and to make matters worse, Dean had taken one look at him and laughed so hard he nearly asphyxiated himself.

No, Dean wouldn't help. Dean wouldn't care if he had an entire face full of zits. Dean's skincare products included water, soap and nothing else. The man didn't even moisturize, for Pete's sake.

There was only one person who would look at him with pity and understand his plight. One person who wouldn't laugh at him or call him Mr. Witchy Witch like Dean did. And that person was Seth Rollins.

So he found himself knocking tentatively on Seth's door ten minutes later, with a tissue pressed to his face. He really didn't need anyone else to see him like this.

The door opened to reveal Seth in a bathrobe with no shoes, his two-toned hair all fluffy around his face like a lion's mane. He'd evidently just blow-dried. He looked at the man in front of him quizzically. It wasn't everyday that someone with a face made of tissue paper knocked on your door.

"Roman?" he asked. "What the fuck?"

Roman barged past him into the room and hissed desperately, "Shut the door quick!"

"Okay?" Seth obediently complied.

"You've got to help me, man." Roman pleaded as soon as the door was safely shut and bolted. "I'm at a loss here."

Seth stared at Roman with his hands on his hips. The puzzled expression on his face turned into full-blown confusion. "Why are you holding a fucking tissue to your face, Rome?"

"I couldn't find anything else to hide them."

"Hide _what_?"

Roman sighed expressively behind the tissue. "These."

Seth's eyes widened. For a moment, the corners of his lips curled up in amusement but he managed to correct that presently, albeit with much difficulty. He couldn't stop a snicker from escaping his traitorous mouth though. "Jesus Christ on a stick," he said, his shaky voice proof that it was only a matter of time before he dissolved into a heap of giggles.

"Oh don't you fucking start too, Seth!" Roman shouted irritably. "Just shut up and help me!"

"Okay, what do you want me to do?"

Roman explained his woes carefully and in full detail to the man he hoped he could trust. "And so you see, you've got to help me pop them so they don't burst in Ryback's face later. And then, you've got to help me put some cover-up on them because they'll be all red and gross."

"Mm-hmmm. Alright." Seth wasn't saying much in account of all the mirth he was trying hold in. But he knew what to do.

Like the true friend that he was, he led Roman into the bathroom, sat him down on the countertop and proceeded to pop those two zits for him. He was a serious professional, didn't even squeal in disgust when the yellow pus and blood decided to erupt all over his fingers. He calmly washed them in the sink, valiantly held a wet wad of tissues to the bleeding popped zits and grabbed the little tube of concealer he kept in his toiletry bag. And then the obvious hit him.

"Your skin tone is different from mine, though," he remarked. "Don't think I can blend it in even if the Queen ordered me to."

"Goddammit," Roman swore in frustration. He looked like he wanted to hit something. He then observed himself in the mirror behind him. "Ah, screw it. Just slather it on. It's got to be better than two red holes in my face right?"

Seth shrugged. "If you say so."

Roman later walked through the hallway of Hirsch Memorial Coliseum with supremely much less bravado and confidence than he was used to. He kept his eyes down and didn't dare to stop to talk to anyone, not until he bumped ungracefully into Dean coming out of the men's locker room.

Dean grabbed Roman's wrist and halted him right in his tracks. "Whoa where you rushing to, big guy? Hold up a sec, I wanna talk to you about my match."

Roman tried to squirm out of Dean's vice-like grip. It was pointless though. "I'm busy, Dean."

"Yeah, not too busy for this. So shut up and listen." Dean was about to launch into a tirade about the cage match he was going to have with Bray afterwards but stopped himself when he caught sight of the two odd beige circles on his buddy's face. They looked horribly out of place. He leaned in further to squint at them. Roman tried his damnedest to get out of his line of sight but it was like beating a dead horse with a stick.

"Holy. Shit," Dean gaped. He completely forgot to keep his voice down. Everyone and their mothers could probably hear him. Roman started thinking up ways he could slowly and painfully torture Dean right there and then. Hopefully something involving a nut wrench. Or a pair of very sharp scissors.

"Are you fucking wearing make-up, Roman Reigns?!"


	4. Bed

**I bring you more one-shots! I've got this sudden rush for writing them from these amazing prompts and it's kind of ridiculous considering I have exams in 15 days. But enjoy! :D**

**LovelyChemistry: AHAHAHAHA. That is true, nothing would ever tarnish Roman's looks. For serious that man is some variation of Adonis. And thank you! I hope you had a wonderful day.**

**Hyrde: YOU. Hahahahaha. Yes, Dean is really fun to play with, but not as fun as Seth. Poor Seth. Do you think they all wear make-up to some degree? I mean, they all have really nice skin. And no, it will never end :D**

**Alisi824: You should get some sleep! But being delirious is kinda fun, you have to admit hahahaha. I wouldn't want you to meet your maker by laughing though! Thank you ever so much, and you're welcome! You don't have to pay me, but I can't refuse virtual hugs or chocolates :D**

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><p><strong>93. Bed<strong>

They almost always shared hotel rooms because they didn't exactly have the Benjamins to splurge on single rooms per person. They'd ask for two adjoining rooms if the hotel had them, and grab anyone else who would take the extra bed – Antonio, or Bo, usually.

But tonight was quite possibly the worst night ever. They'd gotten in late to Denver due to delayed flights and terrible weather, and worst of all, neither of them had remembered to book rooms earlier because they each thought the other had done it. So after driving around in the rain, bickering and sniping in the rented car, they finally found a dingy motel by the side of the road – Ames Motel it was called – and a distressed banner swinging below the flickering signboard read, "Looking for tranquility? Travel no further, you've found it!"

By the looks of the place, Dean honestly doubted they'd found tranquility but he was past caring. They didn't have the mood to traipse around Denver anymore and they were all mad at each other for various reasons. So they got their bags from the boot and stalked angrily out of the rain into the poorly-lit lobby, scaring the sleepy, scrawny, bespectacled concierge half to death.

After barely repressed snapping from Roman and a lot of stammering from the concierge, they ran into another problem. There was only one room available, and it only had one single and a double bed. They also didn't have an extra cot. Dean was about ready to die. Seth was groaning behind him. Roman iterated that they didn't have a choice because '_you're a fucking idiot, Dean_', grabbed the key and headed to the elevator without waiting for either of them.

It all seemed perfectly fine when Dean thought about it in theory, after all, they could cast lots and the losers would share the double bed, but it was a different story altogether when they got up to their appointed room and switched on the lights.

The single bed was twin sized and the double was only a queen. Dean thought he died in the lobby but in all actuality, he died up here in this tiny as fuck room. Seth started groaning again. Roman was sighing in a very irritating manner.

"How are we going to share this?" Dean managed to squawk.

"Shut up, Ambrose. This is all your goddamn fault. You were supposed to book the rooms!" Roman snarled, glowering at the culprit as he banged the door shut. "You and Seth will share the double and I'll take the single because I am completely faultless."

"Oh, please!" Seth all but screamed. "You're the one who bought the flights today! You should have consulted the fucking weather forecast first. So _I'll_ take the single."

Dean sighed. He tiredly lowered himself onto the bed, which was coincidentally as hard as rocks, and watched a cockroach scurry past his feet as he contemplated his predicament. It all came down to Seth or Roman and he didn't particularly enjoy sharing with either of them.

Seth was an absolute nightmare to sleep with. He liked to stretch out and leave absolutely no turning space for his bed partner. He also liked it really cold when he slept. That was fine, except that he was a complete blanket hogger too. More often than not, Dean would wake up to find himself extremely cramped, miserable, and frozen to boot, whenever he shared with Seth. Why not smack him and pull the blanket over, you say? Dean would have everyone know that in addition to all those horrifying habits, Seth also kicked in his sleep. Hard. He still had bruises on his shin from last week to prove it.

And Roman. Dean would like to say that Roman was better than Seth, but unfortunately, he could not bring himself to lie. Roman was a snorer. He also liked the table lamp on when he slept and although he didn't hog blankets or space, Dean found it positively excruciating to sleep with the racket and the blinding illumination. Plus, Roman had this truly aggravating alarm tone that sounded like ten banshees screaming at once. You'd think he'd put his phone under his pillow to soften it a little, but no. Tough luck. Once, Dean had thrown the phone across the room in his annoyance, and Roman hadn't talked to him for days afterwards.

"So, Dean, you have to settle this. I can't argue with that turnip head any longer," Roman said, snapping Dean out of his reverie.

"Turnip head?! I resent that!" Seth screeched.

Again, Dean sighed. He foresaw a sleepless night spent in mind-numbingly cold, back-breaking, body-bruising porcelain but there really was only one solution to this problem.

"I'll take the tub, guys."

And with that, Dean morosely took his backpack, a slightly stained white towel, a moth-infested pillow and a funny-smelling patchwork blanket to the bathroom with him and shut the door to the sounds of his squabbling friends.


	5. Flip-flops

**56. Flip-flops**

Dean liked flip-flops. There was no denying it. He wore them all through summer, even in the middle of spring and he didn't care if his toes froze off, they were that comfortable. He would wear them to wrestle if he could, but even he had to admit that they were highly unsuitable as wrestling gear. No one would stand for flip-flops flying all over the ring and hitting people square in the face. But you know, _'if he could'_ being the operative phrase here. He'd considered taping them to his feet multiple times although the rational voice in his head told him that he was being ridiculous.

Seth, as usual, was always frowning upon his choice of footwear.

_"That T-shirt and cutoffs combo would look so much better if you'd just let me put some loafers on you," he'd say wistfully when Dean was just going down to the store to get a pack of smokes._

_"Who the hell wears flip-flops with a suit?!" he'd shout when Dean would appear in the arena with this admittedly questionable getup, but in his defense, he just wanted to let his feet breathe a little before he shoved them into a pair of stuffy, uncomfortable dress shoes._

_"You know that no one wants to see your disgusting feet right?" he'd snipe when Dean would put them up on the dashboard during their road trips. Dean just wanted to relax, for heaven's sake._

To be completely honest, Dean was getting real tired of Seth's shit. He was a grown-ass man. He could wear whatever the hell he wanted. So the next time Seth questioned his motives for pairing a leather jacket with a pair of purple flip-flops, he very nearly flipped the table in rage.

"They're comfortable, okay?! You piece of crap! I don't question your obsession for douchey snapbacks and skinny jeans, do I?"

Seth sucked in his breath in shock and put his hand over his heart dramatically. "Well, I never!"

"Zip it! And besides, how'd you know they aren't comfortable if you've never even worn them?"

Seth squinted down at Dean's feet disapprovingly. "They can't be as comfortable as you say. There are freaking tan lines on your feet. Gross. That's the reason why people wear shoes, Dean."

Dean wanted to smack him in his snooty face so hard he'd lose an eye. He turned to Roman in despair, who was chuckling in a way that Dean didn't much care for. "Don't just sit there, you brute! Help me!"

Annoyingly, the brute in question just winked, picked his ass up and took it back to the adjoining hotel room. Dean turned back to Seth.

"Alright, you're coming with me. I'm gonna get you a pair of these delightful things. You will wear them and you _will_ like them, so God help me." He got up real close in Seth's face, putting on the most menacing expression he could muster, forcing Seth up against the wall in trepidation.

Two hours later found Dean absolutely discouraged and bitterly regretting his decision. Seth didn't want any 5 dollar kiosk flip-flops, he just HAD to get those 25 dollar Havaianas ones, but even then, those were too cheap. Dean had yelled at him in the shop and almost blew his top, and as soon as Seth paid, he'd ripped them out of the plastic bag and practically forced them onto his feet.

"Now walk!" he commanded.

Seth was astonishingly quiet the whole 30-minute trek back to their hotel room. When Dean ringed them in, Seth sat down on the couch and regarded the things on his feet in stunned awe. He looked as if he'd found the Holy Grail, as if he'd solved all the mysteries in the world in one fell swoop. Dean was a little concerned. But Seth peered up at his friend, his mouth open in a little 'O', his eyebrows lost somewhere in his hairline.

"Oh my God, Dean. Can we go back tomorrow and get another pair?"

Dean beamed in satisfaction. No more having to put up with Seth's arduous complaining. His job was done.


End file.
